


The Oakfather’s Whispers

by polymorphic



Category: Baldur's Gate
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Baldur's Gate 3 Early Access, Baldur's Gate 3 Spoilers, Crash and Slow Burn, Dark Fantasy, Ecology, Eventual Smut, F/M, Morally Ambiguous Characters, Multi, Nature, Other, Rivals to Lovers, Slow Romance, Strangers to Lovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-11 05:47:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28200099
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/polymorphic/pseuds/polymorphic
Summary: Any self-exiled wood elf knows she ought to avoid attracting attention—especially a former druid, like herself. Adding a mutant tadpole to the mix only serves to double that truth, so why?! Enter the First Druid Halsin, with his wide smile, wise eyes, and suspiciously good nature, each of them seeming far too familiar with her for comfort.
Relationships: Halsin (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s), Other Relationship Tags to Be Added, Zevlor (Baldur's Gate)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 22





	1. Ch 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is based on Baldur’s Gate and Dungeons & Dragons. It features all of the blanket warnings for that game, including body horror with strong psychological elements, morally ambiguous characters, morally depraved characters, sexual content, sexual harassment and references to assault, fictional racism, and other themes which can be presented as cartoonishly vapid—or not—depending on who participates in the storytelling. While this fic won’t focus on many of those elements (especially the racism), the characters may encounter them in passing, so please consider this a heads up: it gets gritty. The story will likely earn the Explicit rating before it’s finished, for graphic violence, horror, and smut. 
> 
> Chapters will be flagged with a general warning about incoming sex, grit, or violence—but I won’t commit to tagging each and every thing, lest I fail in that trust and ruin someone’s day. The first chapter is fairly indicative of what you can expect from an untagged update.

The first thing Melia remembers about First Druid Halsin isn’t the way his eyes flitted over her form—that look had been perfunctory, not uncommon amongst healers when one has blood dripping down one’s...everything. Nor is it his mountainous physique, nor how he seems to be hewn from living marble, embodying classic contradictions of soft and hard. Rather, it was the way his breath caught the moment she turned into the light, and how quickly he retreated a step, nostrils flaring at her upturned face. It was the way he reached out, opened his mouth, then closed it again, and how his outstretched fingers curled inward before dropping back to his side. 

It was, she supposes, his look of utter shock—a shock that seemed to have little to do with the surrounding carnage, considering he paid no attention to the bits of fractured skulls and...she frowns. She can see it vividly, deep within her trance: a veritable garland of goblin guts. Bears don’t fight, they _shred._ Spilled guts are to be expected, and the blood-soaked aftermath of his rescue had nothing to do with whatever shock he’d experienced at the sight of her face.

Melia’s confusion must’ve been obvious—her blunt expressions always did border on rudeness, gods preserve her—because his shoulders relaxed, his brow smoothed, and his widened pupils returned to their normal size. _He_ doesn’t experience trouble controlling his own expressions, despite the initial evidence; his entire demeanor realigned itself like a sextant according to a navigator’s will, thoroughly hiding whatever it was that he wanted to say. The abrupt change only served to double her wariness; where before she had too much of a read for comfort, now she had too little. She raised her eyes to greet him—a ridiculous distance, considering her head barely reaches his chest—and carefully took his measure. A small tremor ran through him as he matched her look for look, the directness causing some kind of catastrophic impact. He closed his eyes, breathed in through his nose, breathed out through his nose, then opened them again. A cratered catastrophic impact. 

He smiled, survived her face, then frowned. _“Hrm...that look in your eyes, I’ve seen it before. Are you feeling all right?”_

Melia’s cheek twitched with irritation. She didn’t need his thanks for the rescue, nor did she want it; the risk had been self-motivated, and there was no getting around that fact. It would, however, have been nice to at least confirm his identity before detailing just how precarious her situation was to a complete stranger. _“Are you Halsin?”_ she inquired, sidestepping him curtly. _“Rath said you have the presence of a bear, but I wasn’t expecting the manners of one.”_

Consternated wrinkles bent upon his craggy brow, and a wry smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. _“I’m afraid you’ll have to excuse me—it’s been a long day.”_

Shame fills her at the memory, and not a little embarrassment. Where exactly did she think they were standing? She wouldn’t dream of holding anyone else to a standard of behavior while conversing in a pool of blood, so why him? Her eyes skipped away from the oak medallion on his chest: gold, signifying his rank. _Hierarchies be damned,_ she thought. 

_“Fair,”_ she admitted out loud. _“The sooner we leave, the sooner it can end.”_ She wiped a hand on her filthy leathers, then held it out for him to take. _“I’m Melia, ranger trained. Zevlor sent my cohorts and I to fetch you, and your people are plenty worried, too. We took the long way in, but—”_ she eyed him up and down. His vestments seemed quiet, if not entirely sensible; his bulk was the problem. _“I don’t suppose you’re a sneaky sort of bear...?”_

Halsin’s mouth had twitched at that, and to his credit, he _did_ try to keep quiet…it’s just that the deeper a voice is, the further it carries. Incredulous laughter bubbled in his belly, resonated in his chest, and then rumbled down the hallway, bouncing off the walls like a rambunctious ball. Things went downhill from there. 

_“Incoming!”_ Wyll had sounded the alarm, but Mel could already hear the goblins’ scurrying feet. Sneaking would be impossible, but Halsin looked far more gleeful than concerned—he grinned and shifted back into a bear, then positioned himself between her and the horde. They were covered in even more filth by the time it was finished, but somehow made it out alive.

A feeding carp breaches in the distance, its clumsy splash echoing across the river’s predawn symphony like an undignified cough. Melia smiles and opens her eyes. Perfunctory fish flops are a perfect way to end a trance—mundane is exactly how she prefers them—and after the past few nauseating nights, her preference is more adamant than ever. Gentle river currents, snoring companions, the comforting cacophony of insects and frogs lifted by wind in the reeds...all of these make a lovely lullaby, and for the first time in days she feels grateful to be alive.

The sun’s fingers haven’t yet extended above the horizon when she leaves her bedroll. Everyone else is still asleep—everyone except for Astarion, who’s nowhere to be seen. Perhaps he, too, fancies post-trance strolls? Comfortable in her simple tunic and soft knit leggings, she doesn’t bother with her armor, nor even her boots. Grabbing her quarterstaff, she turns upriver and chases sweet vestiges of the nocturnal breeze. There’s a hoary old willow nearby, unless the parasite has quite taken over her senses; she can smell its earthy bark, recently scored by claws or something sharp, not to mention its myriad leaves. Willowbark is a handy medicine to have prepared, and with the camp’s increasingly frequent headaches, she’s wished to find some sooner. Decided, she veers off the bank, padding soundlessly into the woods.

She finds him there, reclining against the bole of the ancient tree. Tendrils trail along the leaf-strewn ground, partially obscuring him from view; their nebulous mass and weeping grace somehow combine to scale his form, making it seem almost small. Fireflies float among draping fronds, rising, falling, freeing themselves of any rhythm save for Toril’s breath. His eyes are closed in synchrony, lashes brushing against his cheeks. A drab tattoo extends from his right temple to his chin, the design of curling vines making his unguarded face soft-yet-hard, like the rest of him. One massive hand rests at his side, splayed palm-first in the soil, and the other, propped upon his knee. A leaf within it catches her eye—hazel, it seems, was his choice. Fingers made for crushing hold it gently, forcing not even a bend. 

Normally Melia finds horizons to be more tempting than anything—cresting the verge of old and new, of known and unknown, there’s just something about it. Trancing or waking, the moment she rounds the distance and feels her perception shift in accordance with some new knowledge or sight, she wouldn’t trade it for the world. _Normally._ But lately she feels that she’s had quite enough of beauty and horror both. Now she longs for views crushed by towering mountains. She longs for gravity, for permanence, for the steadfast, immutable bones of Toril’s being. Perhaps that’s why she spins around the moment she sees his face. She senses a natural distance within him, devoid of any constructed remoteness. There are no walls within his expression at the moment, no fences—and what is unbound distance, if not a horizon? He can keep it.

“Don’t— ” Something exposed reverberates deep within the stranger’s tone, startling her feet to a grudging halt. “Don’t go.” 

She hears the words, but what do they say? Walk, she wills herself. Not my grove, not my problem. She has plenty of those already, curse the gods very much. But something about his demeanor stays her stride, and she stands there awkwardly until a chuckle reaches around behind, releasing her from the frozen damnation of abandoning an injured bird.

Mel glances over her shoulder. His tired eyes fill with the same emotion as they had before, but this time they cause a ripple of recognition instead of unease—a disturbance born of time and of life. Gods willing, elves such as them can live for a millennium, hearts branching over the years like trees...and, like trees, the loss of too many limbs can bring them crashing down. She turns around. Does she remind him of someone dear? Of someone whose life no longer burns within this plane? She can almost hear Ryl screaming to at least _try_ and be diplomatic until the tadpoles taken care of. She clears her throat, but he spares her the pain of breaking the silence.

“Do you...have a stitch in your side?” He looks vaguely embarrassed, and a frog’s raunchy voice bursts between them, underscoring the absurdity of his smalltalk. 

“Pfftt,” Mel bites down a smile. He grins too, making it somehow harder to keep a straight face. “Sore ribs,” she offers, deciding to go with it. He knows about the parasite, and his reputation _is_ as a healer despite his appreciation for frontal assaults. “My trances for the past week have ended in vomiting, except for this morning’s...bad dreams, believe it or not. How can you tell?”

Halsin climbs to his feet, his movements looking not so much weary as unbearably heavy. “Hrm,” he muses. “Your right leg is drawing short.”

She arches a brow. Were he one of the pirate lads Ryl brings around, she might have taken the low-hanging fruit—you’ve been looking at my legs?—but for the First Druid, she contents herself with a basic, “Ah,” and silence once more stretches between them, thick as taffy and twice as awkward to handle. Again, he’s the first to try and break it.

“I’ve got some medicine that may help back at the grove—will you come? I haven’t forgotten about your problem,” he finishes quickly. “I can just as easily find your camp once I’ve set things right.”

Melia shoots him a wry look. “You say that like it won’t take weeks. Master Halsin,” she adds, almost as an afterthought. 

“No honorifics,” he dodges, “especially from you. _Please._ It’s almost painful.” 

She narrows an eye, then relents. She was a rash eighty years old when she vowed to never again respect a member of the druid hierarchy, but that was fifteen decades ago, and although she bears no fondness for their sheltered, dogma-filled lives, the rage she once harbored for her order’s hypocrisy had all but died to embers. Still, she wasn’t about to bend her neck if prudence doesn't require it of her, and in this case, Prudence happens to be a bizarrely huge wood elf with a fondness for...her face? She wonders again who she reminds him of, but she’s terribly aware of how rude it’d be to ask, so this time she changes the subject herself. “Is Zevlor well?”

Halsin nods. “He seems to have found balance. He and the tieflings have begun preparations to depart...the grove will be quiet without them.” 

Melia snorts at his regretful tone. “You do realize that you’re the only one who’s implied they’ll be missed?” 

“They’re good people.” 

“Mm,” Melia agrees, choosing to drop it. Not her grove, not her problem. Unlike Zevlor—he’d become her friend over the past week, and therefore her problem. “I think I _will_ come by later today, if it’s all the same to you. Check on their supplies.”

Halsin glances over with a fond look, eyes focusing in that uncanny way. “You’re still provisioning, then.” 

Now how does he know that? He’s not wrong, but... “For our camp, yes,” she says, feeling wary twice over. “The tieflings needed help, too. Your people—”

“Will be handled,” he interrupts, his voice abruptly hard. His sudden anger roils overhead, then rolls out to sea like a fast-moving storm—not directed at her, but she’s finished with her stroll all the same.

“I ought to be getting back,” she mutters, glancing at the sky. The sun has nearly climbed above the canopy while they talked, now coloring everything it touches with ludicrous shades of purple, orange, and gold. Halsin nods, gestures for her to wait, then brings her a small doe-hide pouch. 

“Take this,” he urges, pressing it into her hands. She turns over the soft leather, then opens the simple, gut-stitched flap. Inside nestles a bundle of willowbark, expertly gathered for medicinal use. She glances up in time to catch the bridge of his nose returning to its normal color—light tan, from very slightly red. “For your headaches,” he continues. “There should be enough for several days, for you and your companions, too. It works best brewed as a tea, but in a pinch you can grind it and add the powder to stew, or even take it with cold water.”

“How—?”

“Does it truly matter?” he smiles. “Cherish nature’s bounty and be blessed.”

“Thank you, Halsin.” His throat moves when she says his name, and she distracts herself from the bizarrely intimate response by wondering how she’s ever going to grind a powder without a mortar and pestle. Two stones smoothed by the river, perhaps? “I’ll see you later today. Can I expect some sort of answer to bring to my companions?”

“I will at least share _when_ you can expect that answer. But Melia—” he waits to continue until she’s turned back around to face him. “There are no easy paths to what you seek. If you seek my aid, you must show patience.” 

“Right,” she sighs. “Patience.” 

What else is there for a long-fused bomb?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‣ This fic was begun during 2020 Early Access. Details and plot may be adjusted as more canon is released. In the meantime, a lot of original content.
> 
> ‣ Lledryl, aka Ryl, is an original character designed by Paraparadigm for our cooperative playthrough. She features in her own fic, [ Honey and Pitch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27757990/chapters/67946284). Go check it out!
> 
> ‣ All screenshots appearing in this work are taken and edited by Polymorphic. 
> 
> ‣ Now that I know what I'm doing with my characters, I have converted Hummingbirds Amongst Thorns to its final format. :) I hope you enjoy the story.


	2. Ch 2

The Emerald Grove isn’t so much a grove as it is a stronghold carved into a few rocky, hollowed-out hills. The River Chionthar—at least, Melia assumes it’s the Chionthar because _something_ has to go right—abuts it tightly to the east, wending past in a steep ravine. The grove’s construction is cleverly done using a combination of natural terracing and well-placed burrows, some of which are linked overland, some by tunnel, and some with both. Even the central hill seems to be chosen specifically for defense; unlike the regional sandstone, which is ferrous and easily eroded, that rock is made of harder stuff. Although it too seems quartz-based, she’s certain the grey-colored stone is one of the fused varieties that’s been hardened by heat, pressure, and time. As it is, the grove is only accessible by one of three ways: a steep passage climbing up from the river; a traipse through the front gate—a narrow thing, easily defended though it’s made of wood; or by blasting away one of the two hills on either side of that narrow gate. 

Unless, of course, it’s known where the secret paths are. Every grove has at least oneof them...and nothing annoys a sheltered druid more than popping out of one unexpected. She hasn’t found one just yet, so she arrives at the main entrance like a proper invited guest. Which she is. Unfortunately. 

Fresh out of excuses to sulk in her reluctance, Melia drags her feet. There really isn’t anyone else to blame; she’s the one who volunteered when they were divvying up today’s tasks. Lledryl, Lae’zel, Astarion, and Shadowheart each wanted to investigate north—they’d found a cache of weapons in the ruined temple which were decidedly _not_ goblin-made, and anyone who’d sell armaments and ordnance to goblins would be interesting to say the least. Plus they could look for signs of the githyanki crèche...worth the effort to keep Lae’zel happy, as far as Mel is concerned, not to mention as a backup in case Halsin can’t help them. Gale and Wyll wanted to sort through the loot they’d found—some of it was cursed, and Gale got real interested in the Absolute’s signature on those—and Wyll wanted to look for more signs of Mizora, his patroness gone wrong. Meanwhile, they decided, Melia will follow up with the people in Emerald Grove. She agreed to go without a second thought at the time, but currently she feels a peculiar sort of resentment, one that’s deep and dull and very slightly stabbing, like an old wound acting up in foul weather. She finds the purity of the grove’s air to be far more suffocating than it is refreshing, saturated with a willful shelteredness that’s too familiar for comfort.

“You did it!” Zevlor’s voice carries well on the wind, and she feels happier for hearing it. “Tymora smile on me, they’re _dead!”_

“Good morning,” she calls, raising her hand toward his perch over the gate. “I’ll pass along your words of joy!” 

_“Joy?!_ Get up here! We need to talk!”

She blinks at the flashpan anger in his voice, then frowns, trying to recall what little she’s learned of tiefling culture over the past century. It’s not much, considering how Brynnlaw’s underbelly supersedes the myriad ethnicities dwelling there, and her memories of Elturelian protocol aren’t very helpful either, considering she’s never been. How rude was she, exactly? 

The gate opens and reveals a storm of domestic chaos. Children, adults, cats, their carts, crates, barrels, oxen, shoes, sacks, snacks, she sights it all, massing on the druids’ threshold. She crosses through the tunnel, carefully stepping around the mayhem and into the grove. Something tells her to look up, and when she does, she finds Zevlor waiting to pounce on the other side. 

“Gods above,” he swears, leaning over the rampart to glare at her. “You’re alive! I’d given you up for dead at the goblin camp!” 

Melia tilts her head, unsure of how to respond. Should...should she apologize? Probably, yes. And contrition, confused or otherwise, is best conveyed face to face. “Be right there,” she calls. The rampart was left largely in its natural rough-hewn state, although there’s a gravel path leading across the gate from one hill to the other, and the view would be quite nice if it weren’t for the hasty palisades. It concerns her how at home Zevlor seems to be among them, keeping the majority of his body under cover at any given moment. She reaches for the ladder and ascends the rungs two at a time—similar to a nuthatch, she’s more graceful when climbing than on the ground, in this form, anyway—and she manages to avoid klutzing it up under his heated gaze. He ducks out of view, then reappears at the ladder’s head, reaching down to help her up. “Thanks,” she says, minding the claws. 

He hauls her over the lip, shuffles her off the path, then turns her square to face him. He frowns, releases her shoulders as though they’re prohibited objects, then sighs. He stands there stiffly, hands clasped behind his back, and _stares._

Melia stares back. How many expressions does this man have? What do they _mean?_ She searches his eyes for something she knows how to read. They’re unlike any she’s ever seen—flaming inside, literally flaming—and the asmodean infernos miniaturized within seem to exhibit a twinning effect, a slight dimming and brightening in time to…his pulse, perhaps. 

Well. Her analyses are never lacking, but her interpretation on this one is a complete failure. “Sorry,” she grimaces. 

“S- _Sorry?!”_ His face scrunches with disbelief, then rearranges into a fond smile. “No, my friend. The sight of Halsin walking through that gate was a little bit of light, just when the day seemed darkest.”

Melia smiles at his smile. She’s never felt relieved to see someone’s fangs before. “The First Druid return in time to save us, then?” 

“Only just,” Zevlor muses. “It would’ve been bad. Goblins were massing in the forest—Kagha and her ilk stopped the Rite of Thorns, but they went to cower in their caves—and my most brilliant plan hinged on terrain and a few barrels of oil. With their leaders gone, Halsin said he was able to scatter them simply by virtue of being a bear.”

“Ha,” Mel snorts. Good. Something was _wrong_ with those goblins. Something, she suspects, having to do with the Absolute, whose fingers are surprisingly long. Being chased back to their hideyholes was a better fate than the sadistic little monsters deserved, but...Halsin looked exhausted this morning, must’ve been the best he could do. Too bad though, there were a couple of walking targets she’d dearly like to meet again. 

“He’ll be all right,” Zevlor says, eyes crinkling as they intercept hers. “Nettie stayed up with him all night.”

“You know about Cowin?”

“I paid him a visit this morning. He said your forehead does precisely that when you worry—fascinating creatures, pseudodragons. We brought _him_ a hare for once! It’s hard to believe it’s only been a week since you arrived.” 

The tension between her shoulders eases perceptibly. Cowin is her partner in the wilds and everywhere else, and yesterday he was injured beyond her skill to heal. Their first introduction to the Absolute goblins: a complete disaster. The disaster part was unsurprising; one must never expect a goblin to conform to one’s own cultural ideals, moral ideals, or any ideals at all, really. Melia is certain they have them, of course, but the few she’s been made aware of are held in direct opposition to hers, and in fact to her very survival, so she tends to avoid them. As they do, her. That’s how it works where she’s from. But these ones...she shudders. Is this what she has to look forward to as a thrall? Enacting the will of a malicious upstart god? Or is her body reserved for a higher form of cruelty, too horrific for uncomplicated disgust? If the dreams are any indication, this entity will blow right past a victim’s baser reactions and go straight for tears of blood.

“Will you see him?” Zevlor intrudes gently. “He can move his wing again.”

She flashes him a smile, grateful and likely strained. The tiny dragon refuses to make a connection with anyone who’s infected with the parasite, although he can still understand verbal speech, and the lack of two-way communication is ultimately what got him hurt. Melia has no idea how to make it up to him. A gift maybe? A shiny for his hoard, perhaps. “Thanks, Zevlor. I’ll go see him after I’ve managed my tasks.”

“Are you here to speak with Halsin? If so, I’m afraid you’ll have to wait a bit longer.” He gestures behind her, and she glances over her shoulder into the basin below. The First Druid has made himself busy turning the others out of their holes. He positions himself between the assembly and their exit, his wide stance and curled fists all but daring them to try and escape. Kagha steps forward and gesticulates—Melia can’t quite make out what she says—and Halsin cuts her off with a gesture.

“You DARE look me in the eyes!” he roars, his voice rampaging through the grove like an angry bull. “You deserve to be banished!” 

A few tieflings pause to listen, their faces looking pleased and a little bit nervous. Halsin has proved a nebulous ally, although they seem happy to have him back, and the busy energy of their preparations combines with secondhand nerves at the punitive spectacle, making their expressions even more animated than usual. Everyone except for Zevlor, whose armored shoulders remain disciplined and still, gleaming in the mid-morning light. 

“How’s the performance?” Melia wonders. His horns tilt with a brief glance, then straighten as his gaze returns to the basin below. Whatever his thoughts, he decides not to share them, and she’s content to wait in silence while the First Druid savagely abraids his subordinates, inescapable within the furthest corners of the grove. After pronouncing their guilt and deservings of ejection, he quiets to hear their excuses; only then does Zevlor stir.

“The fools are reciting _dogma,”_ he mutters, sounding disgusted and slightly impressed. “To _Halsin.”_

Melia isn’t surprised. Silvanus’ teachings are tools—and tools, misapplied, wreck houses. Kagha has had it in for Halsin’s house for quite a while, that much is obvious, and she allowed the shadows to manipulate her every fear...right under his nose, no less. Even from here, Mel can sense his internal quaking, the cavernous unrest colliding with rock and stone, building enough pressure to blast through layers of ash and sediment, enough to destroy centuries worth of strata that have accumulated to disguise an active volcano as a docile mountain. That the pressure doesn’t seem entirely due to rage baffles her, but she’s respired far too much of the grove’s suffocating air, and she backs away, intent on reaching higher ground. Zevlor’s footsteps soon follow.

She climbs the eastern hill, then sneaks a glance at his face. His expression seems stiff, eyes fixed on her boots, and she wonders if it’s her turn to intrude. “We’ve got nice weather,” she says tentatively, reaching for smalltalk like a disused hat. “How are your supplies?”

“Supplies,” he snorts. “We didn’t plan for this, you know. We brought gold, not seige rations. There were supposed to be toll houses waiting for us, not armies! But—” he heaves a sigh, scattering his complaints to the wind like a handful of leaves. “You and I needn’t speak of business just yet, nor even departures. We’ve cause to celebrate, all of us, and I for one could use a bloody drink. May we join your camp tonight?” 

Melia bites her lip. It would be easy to invite them without thinking, and she’s eager, but she spent yesterday panicking over Cowin and springing Halsin from a cookpot, not preparing for a few dozen guests. There’s a bit of meat leftover from the stag she got the other day, but she’ll need three more to feed the tieflings. Either that or a couple of boars and half a dozen ducks. Or...no, she doubts she’ll find enough rabbits in time. Fish are risky too...maybe if it was raining, but she doubts she’ll find that many biting on a sunny afternoon. 

“Melia?” 

Big game it is, then. She could probably taunt Lae’zel into carrying the carcasses back to camp—it’s worked before—and a party _does_ sound fun. Everyone but Astarion would agree. Her heart shoots back up again.

“If you’re thinking of fussing...” Zevlor smiles down at her. “Don’t.” 

Melia draws herself up to her full height, barely reaching his chin. “Hellrider Zevlor,” she squints. “I am _sy’tel’quessir,_ a wood elf. _I’m going to fuss.”_

“Well,” he coughs, avoiding outright laughter. “You _are_ good at it. It’s been nice to feed the children extras for a change.”

“Pleasure doing business,” she grins, jingling her pouch. “My friend and I arrived to this region with nothing but the clothes on our backs. Your trade has meant a lot to us.”

A voice below interrupts, filled with raucous mischief. “Zevlor, help us with these crates! Ikaron volunteered, but he says Granny will have to _carry him_ if he hurts his back again!” 

“I—she—psh! Did not!” 

Zevlor rolls his eyes, and this one Melia understands. “Have fun,” she waves. 

He snorts, but his steps are light as he makes his way down the grove. “Gods above...lift with your legs, you lot! Must it be chanted?”

She would offer to help, but Melia knows when she’s useless. It’d be different if there was something stuck at the top of a tree, but heavy lifting is quite out of the question for her abilities. Instead she watches their interactions for a time, curiously noting how the secondhand glow of their camaraderie collides with the practiced ambivalence of her chronic loneliness. Why is it, she wonders, that everyone is lacking something crucial in this sphere? She has a home, but she can count her people on three fingers, and each one of them will die before she’s burned through a third of her life. The tieflings have no home, but they’ve got each other and whatever small solace their mutual suffering can bring. She’s felt it before—when the moon and sun are passing each other in the predawn gloaming, when the birds and insects fall silent before descending into madness—when she’s meditating, and her consciousness lofts on the warming breeze, higher and higher, past where the air gets thin, past where the eagles soar, past where she floats, she can sometimes glimpse it beyond the curving horizon: the pattern. The balance. Her peers always felt joy and unity whenever they managed to witness its complex fragility, but she feels trepidation. Trepidation and rage. Yes it’s wondrous, and yes, it’s beautiful! But someone _designed_ Realmspace like this. Someone _wants_ Tirol to wobble from one crisis to the next, to always have one shortage, one conflict, something, somewhere, someone always lacking enough to pray, to bargain, to beg. On bad days it’s enough to make her accuse the gods of a grand conspiracy—even if the architect remains in absentia, the present custodians reap plenty—but Ryl just shrugs whenever she brings it up and orders another round of drinks.

Gravel crunches on the path behind, heavy footsteps leaving little doubt as to whom they belong. She pulls her attention from Zevlor’s back—easier to appreciate by the minute, gods save her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Halsin sighs. “There was work to do. Necks to wring.” 

She shoots him a beady look. “So we heard, Master Halsin. _All_ of us.” 

A strained silence follows, and Halsin’s gaze falls to where the tieflings mill about their work. A squabble breaks out among the siblings while their brother looks on, helpless to intervene. Zevlor gives his back a bracing pat. 

“A show was the least I could offer,” the druid observes quietly. His attention shifts to where Kagha approaches with some hay for their oxen, covered from head to foot in chaff. “I foolishly left the grove vulnerable to rabble—yet the bulk of penitence, both hers and mine, must remain out of view.”

Why is he telling her this? 

She searches out Zevlor’s form. The hellrider moves with a swordsman’s grace, with actions practiced, measured, and sure. There’s a certain lilt to his gait, years of drills followed by live-or-die experience, and he seems to always know where his center of gravity is, shifting his weight with unthinking balance. Combined with the warmth of his gestures, the effect is...beautiful. Beautiful in a tattered, masculine sort of way. It’s not enough to distract her, damnit. 

Bitter words spill from her lips, murky water pouring over flooding dams, impossible to be stopped. “I’ve never met an ox who requires artistry of the one who prepares its trough before.” She tilts her head to indicate Kagha, who lingers among the hated to fluff some third-rate hay. “Meticulous. Is she self-learned or taught?”

Mel can almost feel Halsin’s brows drawing together, and she prepares to weather his anger with the glee of an idiot anticipating a storm. It does not come. “That...was well-aimed,” he says. _“Don’t,”_ he adds when she opens her mouth again, “ruin it.” 

Another suffocating silence passes between them, each successive moment making her feet itch a little more. She wants to quit this place, but every time she thinks about leaving, she feels Lledryl standing over her soul. _“You like to speak with animals, right? People are animals.”_ She has a point, Mel thinks, but people are different. Different and exhausting. 

And needed. 

“It wasn’t my business,” she concedes stiffly. Not her best sacrifice to the altar of peace, but it’ll have to do. There’s a prickle at the back of her neck, and she glances up to find Halsin’s eyes gone sharp, like a hawk’s. Calmly hurled, the offering flies back in her face. 

“Wasn’t it?”

An accusation. Presuming to know her, he dares to judge her? Rage gnaws at the rope of her tightly bound temper, and not a little fear. _How?_ Cornered, she snaps. “I didn’t abandon my grove, Master Halsin. It abandoned _me._ Dogma elevated over balance in the name of Silvanus, hay primped for oxen under the noses of those who were begrudged water. Nostalgic. Now tell me, _e’sum tel’amne,_ how it is you _know_ me.”

A throat clears behind them, and Melia rounds on the interloper with a mouthful of words, quickly turned to ash. “Sorry to interrupt,” Zevlor says, glancing between them. “May I join you?”

She steps back quickly, eager to make room at Halsin’s ponderous side. The druid shifts expressions as smoothly as the tiefling shifts balance, and their mutually haggard eyes crinkle with warmth as they return each other’s greetings. “Zevlor!” Halsin booms, clasping his hand. “A moment of peace at last.” 

The hellrider snorts, a good-natured sound more likely to cause smiles than offense. “A moment is all we needed, Halsin! And _yet.”_ His horns tip forward, nodding as he shakes the druid’s hand. “The grove was poorer for your absence, but wherever there are strangers to be met, there are also friends. Melia here numbers among them, and the children have grown especially fond of Wyll.” 

“Yes,” Halsin concedes, glancing in her direction. “I can’t tell if the gods have blessed us, or if it was fate—but we have a blight to thank for bringing them here.”

“A blight? Nine hells...is that why we encountered so many monsters?” 

Halsin’s eyes cloud with something like confoundment, quickly converted to confidence. “Assume they’re connected,” he advises firmly. “Your people will have the moment they need...but be wary.”

“Always,” Zevlor smiles. “Though it pains my plans to retire.”

Melia’s attention wanders while they chat. A few of the tieflings can’t tell balsam from bugloss, and they keep stumbling over medicinal herbs...which seems to explain Kagha’s sudden interest in herding. She gestures sharply, directing refugees through the grove with the agonized movements of a nobody who’s determined to protect something—anything—according to her tragically out of reach aesthetic. Halsin sighs and mutters he’ll be back; he goes to handle her, and she barks at him, too. She reminds Mel of a farmer’s overexcited bitch puppy who once kept abandoning her post in favor of chasing the neighbor’s flock. The solution to the puppy’s problem had been to fit her with a new job, but somehow Mel can’t imagine it being so easy with this one, who’s five times larger and ten times more vicious. “Someone ought to muzzle her,” she mutters. 

Zevlor chuckles and takes a step closer, bringing a hand to the small of her back. “She’s Halsin’s problem, now.”

She glances up, surprised. The warmth of his tone douses some of her temper, and the gesture...She tries not to think about it. She ought to ignore it, and she _can._ It’s light enough that she could brush it away with a feather, and one small pivot would sever the contact immediately, allowing them to pretend it was merely an accident. But she doesn’t move. _Hells,_ why doesn’t she move? 

Zevlor doesn’t take his eyes from the proceedings below, leaving her free to interpret his profile unobserved, but after a few moments of inaction, the pressure at her back gradually increases, and so does her temperature, right up until he turns toward her with a closed-lipped smile, delivered with a rub of his thumb. It’s the briefest of looks—he’s gone in an instant, called away to help lift the remaining crates—but it’s enough to set her heart racing in a way she simply dreads.

“Sorry to keep you waiting...again.” Halsin’s exhausted reprise brings a grudging smile to her face, and she relents, turning around to assess his damage. A bit of tightness around the eyes, it seems. Now he’s the one with a headache. 

She chooses to play along, repeating his words from yesterday. “I’m afraid I’ll have to excuse you—you’ve had a long day.” 

“Fair,” he grins, his voice creaking with falsetto. “The sooner we leave, the sooner it can end.” 

“Pffft,” Mel snorts. “That was terrible.” 

Their next silence settles more comfortably than the last, but the sun has already passed its zenith, and she supposes all mediocre things must come to an end. “About leaving,” she suggests, subtle as ever. Halsin raises a calloused hand. 

“I promised I’d have a time when you can expect an answer, and I do. I’ll be at liberty to join your camp tonight, if you’ll have me, and we’ll speak first thing in the morning. Presumably your companions will want to be present for the discussion, and we’ll all have gotten some much-needed rest.”

Melia isn’t sure how she manages to keep her fingers from strangling the bridge of her nose, but she does. “Agreed,” she grates. “And the parasite?”

“Stable for now. I can’t say for how long, but I truly believe none of you are in immediate danger. Truly.”

Remembering Zevlor, she tries sighing away her complaints. “There’s a party tonight...are you well enough to withstand the noise? I can’t imagine it ending early.”

Halsin’s face relaxes, and for a moment she glimpses the misplaced tenderness in his eyes. They’re brown flecked with silver, those eyes, like hers and many others—but unlike any others, his have a lucid gravity, and they speak, entirely self aware of the force they exert upon others. “For you,” he says, extending a vial of clear liquid. “For your stomach.” 

Refusing the orbit, she climbs from his well. “Peppermint?” she asks, reaching for the vial between them.

Halsin’s mouth curves, and he uses a forefinger to poke her hand out of their shadows. Curious, she adjusts her grip and tilts the vial toward the sky. She can see it then, the fine particulate suspended in peppermint oil, refracting prettily in the sun’s unshaded light. “Watching gods!” she spits, making him laugh. “I’d rather have gold—Halsin! Pay me instead!” 

“Don’t be foolish,” he says, reaching for her cheek. She glances quickly at his outstretched fingers. They halt and curl inward, returning to his side. Another reprise from yesterday, it seems, but she notes that her rejection has no bearing on his expression. It remains just as soft as it is hard, like the rest of him. 

Fey opal is incredibly rare, and from the looks of it, he chose one the size of a grape to treat a tummy ache. “I can’t,” she objects.

“Share with your companions and rest.” 

“But—”

“Don’t argue this, _nizara._ A debt is owed.”

She closes her eyes at the nickname, given in her natal tongue. Little lightning he called her, an affectionate diminutive attached to a poorly understood force of nature. She wishes she could hate it, and she wishes that she had brought her friend. Lledryl would know how to handle this brute who’s somehow acquired the charisma necessary to shut her up. It’s a bitter thought, but something within her uncoils and reconciles with it—something that’s actually comforted by this stranger’s uncanny knowledge of her pressure points. Unwilling to face the implications of alarming self-discoveries while sober, she relents to his surgical prodding with a quarrelsome scowl. “Going to visit Cowin.” 

Later, when she and Lledryl are home, and later, when they’re drinking off this mess, then maybe she’ll think about what it all means—her reactions, her dreams, what the tadpole uses to tempt her, and whom—preferably while settled under the weight of an enthusiastic sailor, eager to make port. Preferably with an equally disheveled Ryl to roll her eyes at the next day. Preferably with Zander to cluck and fuss over their hangovers, his wizardly little brows furrowing with disapproval before asking for all the raunchy details. Preferably. But for now she has the party to look forward to, and the hunt. And the secondhand camaraderie of those who are overjoyed to have survived one more conflict, one more shortage, one more lacking on the way to happiness. _Maybe this time,_ she thinks when Zevlor’s voice reaches her from upwind. Maybe this time it’ll rub off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ‣ e’sum tel’amne = son of oak. Here Melia is rubbing in the hypocrisy she perceives from the whole situation.  
> ‣ I mixed up some of the dialogues with Halsin and Zelvor, and I included a few different limbs from their branching narrative. Hope you don't mind ;)
> 
> Next chapter will see some much-needed relief for at least two of these disasters. Thank you for reading!


End file.
